states of being (or an alchemist's stringed puppet
by birthwriteprince
Summary: He's a creature of precarious hypocrisy— both in not regretting the war for bringing him her, and in regretting the everything that his two hands have done. (alternatively: a story about trying to measure warmth with a jacket because loving in war often ends up just the same)


**_to the very last atom (bose-einstein condensate)_**

.

He decides that it's cold.

The desert winds blow up dust and ashes (particles of burnt dreams and hopes and innocent smiles) and the great ball of perpetual light bears unforgivingly down upon their backs. Metal surfaces radiate waves of visual distortion and the orange landscapes look like something viewed through a swirling wall of water.

Roy pulls back his sticky collar and grits his teeth (they will chatter because he's no reason for his steel heart not to freeze) as he stares down at the small town from high up above.

People scatter from their newly abandoned homes, shrieks and shouts the background to staccato gunshots; the symphony brings a shiver down his militarily stiff spine. The soldiers are ruthless in shooting Ishvalans away, their every shot facilitated as they're allowed to be cowards way back in the distance. (Because courage takes heart, but there is none of that here.)

The Flame Alchemist waits for his cue (it had been given half a minute ago), lost in the panicked look red eyes always cast skyward as their hope seems to drain right before them. _They must be looking for their god_, is his only absent thought. The terror that floods their eyes as they find him instead does not go unnoticed.

(He's not a god made to live above the clouds, yet reality bends at the thin red outline on his otherwise white gloves. It's funny how much colder it is that closer to the sun.)

He's reminded of what he's here for, and with a gloved hand raised, his snap feels like an earthquake, the sudden blossoming of orange before him the seismographic aftermath.

Roy does not breathe, face flickering with the blazes of flames, and he sees nothing. Gunshots and screams fade into one another, and he turns around; the breath he takes afterwards is all false justifications and frigid accountability, and he feels it, heavy and stifling in his lungs.

* * *

><p><strong><em>charged a jolt beyond fine (plasma)<em>**

.

The cadet salutes him and Hughes emphatically, shoulders perfectly straight and right hand hovering stiff over her temple. The unfamiliarity of the situation over the overwhelmingly familiar face is enough to make him falter, his eyes pausing over her for a moment longer. (She's so brutally beautiful, even in the midst of war.)

The body of her deconstructed gun shines dangerously under the dark sun, and the image of crimson erupting from the chest of a stranger flashes before his eyes; he can picture the same (painfully) empty look in her eyes as she pulls that trigger, not a fluctuation in her heartbeat (he knew it so well) as her target falls dead.

(The recollection of her broken expression as she had to witness a few men kicking a stray dog one day floods his mind, and he remembers her tears wetting the ground as she filled the grave for it soon after. The sharp contrast in his two memories suddenly makes her apathetic gaze feel like a bullet to his skull, and not stuttering becomes hard.)

"At ease, cadet," Hughes replies, and she still stands ramrod straight, arms now folded behind her back. (The title of Hawkeye fits her military standing perfectly, but Roy can't stop the nagging voice in his head: Riza, Riza, _Riza_.)

Hughes mentions the name everyone knows her by— "The title of _hawk's eye_ certainly fits. This cadet's been a valuable asset countless times with her aim already." — but Roy doesn't need to hear it when he proceeds to explain that she was the one who shot his earlier attacker. (It's his fault she has to kill, he laments; instead of just him, she will be forced to throw her entitlement to be called _human_ away, too.)

The alchemist's best friend seems to like the young sniper well enough, remarking that Roy's sorry hide would be even sorrier (almost as dead as he feels inside) if not for her. With a discreet elbow to the side and his throat tight, Roy nods at her, "You have my gratitude, Cadet Hawkeye." (and _I'm so sorry._)

She remains emotionless (her smile was so _bright_) as she inclines her head (her eyes are so _dark_) and speaks, "Thank you, Major Mustang." He catches the ghost of a hesitation, gone as she continues, "It's been awhile."

Hughes attention is snagged in the subtle tilt of his head and perk of his ears, and Roy holds his breath in place of answering.

The following silence is charged with electricity; it will either explode into something painfully unneeded or dissipate into nothing and leave a sense of emptiness. Roy can sense Hughes' urge to ask about their past; can taste his own pretenseful resentment for her being here; can feel her solid presence, tingling with familiarity and that's only half sure.

The alchemist exhales silently, managing a hollow, "Indeed it has," and the energy of the moment withers away.

* * *

><p><strong><em>structural resistance to change (solid)<em>**

.

He pretends to pretend he didn't know she had her eyes on him even off the field, but in truth, the revelation catches him off guard.

The day has been long and arduous; the speech that particular morning by the Fürher himself had been so overtly patriotic to nearly the point of soft propaganda that Roy is still trying to put together how nearly everyone was so enamored with the words.

Perhaps it was his rank.

Roy sits by himself before the fading fire, the slowly dying embers causing dark shadows to dance over his face. He hears the footsteps long before the presence sits down beside him, and the soft creak of the bench beneath them brings back memories of cold winter nights spent with glowing candles and weathered tomes, rain pounding on the roofs and a warm body trying not to fall asleep beside his. (He's the wearier this time, shoulders heavy from the weight of the countless lives whose one-day-I-will he took away.)

She —cadet, Hawkeye, comrade, _Riza_ — doesn't speak, and neither does Roy; he has nothing to say (except for everything, but he can't yet find the words). The soft crackling of the little burning wood that remains fills the silence with two potentials of hollow small talks or cold loneliness— both of which are equally unappealing.

If Roy contemplates adding fuel to the fire, he does not act on it, instead staring intently at his pale, ungloved fingers, softened by the orange of the flame and highlighted by the moon. He considers the incongruity of delicate tools of brutal murder, bringing his gaze upward to the tall podium where the Fürher had stood hours earlier; it looks even more glorious backed by the light of the moon.

He almost forgets of her presence until she shifts, bringing her hands around herself and rubbing at her arms to ease the chill. It takes the soft curl of his own breath into the air for him to realize just how cold it is in front of the long gone fire, and he rests his hands on his thighs, rubbing them to keep from shivering.

She looks cold in just her military-issue slacks and turtleneck and if he has half a mind to give her his jacket, he doesn't. (He's waited too long, scared she won't want his warmth.) Under the glow of the moon, her hair shines almost pearlescent white, softer than any fiery reds or blazing oranges or dark grey silhouettes behind the shadow of a gun.

"I _am_ real, Major," she says softly, but the sudden sound makes him start. She's been watching him (watching her) intently with her ochre-brown eyes, and in all the quiet, he feels obligated to whisper in reply.

"It's hard for me to believe so."

There's a moment of quiet, then a barely-there whisper. "It's hard for me, too."

Several thoughts fly through his head — "Riza, it's just _Roy_; can't you remember?" and "Don't say you're something so less than what you are." — but she's speaking again, as if she had sensed his impulsive turn to informality and stopped it before it could lead them both astray.

"You're still a lot the same, are you?" The question (it's not a question) catches him off guard. "Still holding to your ideally pure goals. I see you stare up at the place where the Fürher stands, and I can see you seeing yourself there instead."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, and opens his mouth to reply before she interrupts, making it evident she isn't quite done yet.

"Forgive my implications, sir, but that could be considered disloyalty."

What words he had turn into a rueful chuckle, and he brings his eyes back to her's — an unwavering ochre, serious and blank — so apathetic his chuckle suddenly feels out of place. He leans back on his hands and stares back up at the Fürher's stand.

Roy remembers the echoes of that morning's speech (another day of death for some benefit of some kind), and he sighs deeply.

"Never disloyalty, my dear cadet; only a dream."

(He leaves soon after, draping his jacket across her shoulders as he departs; the blue fabric is found folded by his cot-side when he wakes up the next morning, and it smells like last night's campfire and almost of her.)

* * *

><p><strong><em>sans definition and rigidity in shape (liquid)<em>**

.

Her screams hurt most because he never thought they'd have to be — especially by his own hand.

The memory, though already a few days old, is too vivid for his tastes, but a twisted masochism of his mind keeps it that way, riddling his thoughts with guilt and his nights with sleeplessness.

The sound echoes in the back of his mind; the way he could feel it explode from her lungs and how he recoiled almost instantly. Through her labored gasps (he could hear her tears louder than every drop of blood he's spilt), she grit out a weak, "_Don't,_" and he wished more than anything she meant _don't go on_ instead of the opposite. Underneath his hands, her back was taut and her frame shaking as she tried (for herself, for _him_) and failed to not cry out again.

Even as he stares up at the ceiling, wide awake and utterly exhausted, he wonders how a scream can hurt so much — resonating from his eardrums right to his very core — and leave him with such a horrible feeling of nothing in his gut as he almost, but not quite, collapsed in on himself.

She has it indefinitely worse, he knows, and with every second, he wants to disappear — every part of him from the pain he's caused to the words he's spoken. (Where would she be, then; still sheltered and ignorant, but never needing to feel such excruciating suffering?) Roy can't erase that hollowing feeling: the one where he knows her face is stained with tears as the air stenches of disinfectant and burnt flesh; where he cannot bear to look at his scarlet-stained hands, knowing he'll lose what little facade he has if he does.

When dark eyes have lost count of the candlelit cracks and bumps on the apartment ceiling, they trail down a little lower to the woman on his couch with her face tucked away and her limbs held tightly to herself.

Her shirt hides a mess of bloodied bandages and the raw flesh that surrounds it, and even with the thin blanket that covers her form, she shivers violently, looking too frail and too weak in the flickering candlelight. Roy sits up, peeling off his own blanket and draping it around her shivering shoulders. He doesn't realize he's holding his breath until she shifts slightly, pulling the warm fabric closer to herself; he exhales, his chest feeling a little looser despite himself. (So this is what it is, to feel wanted for your warmth, no less or no more.)

She (he doesn't quite know her name— at least to _him_, the one stuck in between Major and in-love-with-their-past Roy) turns around to face him with sallow face and heavily lidded eyes. "I'm sorry," she rasps, and the words feel out of place coming from her mouth.

He lets her words hover, eyes closed and brows drawn, before whispering a emphatic, "_Don't_," in reminiscence of her own words from just a few days ago. Chagrin radiates off her in waves and her ochre eyes are on him, but meeting them now is the last thing he wants to do.

"Not for the blanket," she elaborates.

Roy pinches the bridge of his nose. "Riza," he mutters tiredly.

"Not for _this_, either, sir. Whatever it is that keeps you up at night and makes you wallow in this pathetic self-torture routine — I'm sorry that it's getting to you, and even more that you seem to let—"

"_Cadet_," he snaps forcefully, and the way she falls silent is punch to the stomach. His voice softens, but the edgy tint is yet to fade. "Stand down."

He clenches his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose, until the soft rustling stops; she's turned away from him again, and her hair glows golden in the low candlelight like ancient sunsets in summer and dying campfires in sand. It was in that desert that she found him once again, and — while the stink of ashes and burning sand churns his stomach — he can't find the drive to regret the situations that led up to _her_. (He's a creature of precarious hypocrisy— both in not regretting the war for bringing him her, and in regretting the everything that his two hands have done.)

She shifts again; he snaps out of his reverie. "Go to sleep, sir," she mutters, half irritated and half sincere and completely slurred with sleep.

"I'm sorry," he breathes, not sure if she hears him. She grunts in response — a completely noncommittal gesture — before he's sure she's fast asleep. His eyes drift shut as he breathes soundlessly, and for the first time in what might have been days, Roy falls into sleep.

(He dreams of nothing and wakes up to her; bathed in sunlight and looking utterly content, he thinks that she — _they_ — might actually be okay.)

* * *

><p><strong><em>take all the space given (gas)<em>**

.

The new office is big as at least five of his old tents — two of his meager apartments — and untinged by the smell of crisped agonies or sullied sand. There is no orange of loose material below his weathered boots, nor is there the stench of flesh or the bleak green of stale, canvas walls.

What little Roy has occupies one third of the drawers on his mahogany desk (almost the color of her eyes) and a modest three quarters of the smoothed surface.

Roy adjusts the last item on his desk — a traditional, albeit admittedly impractical inkwell with a large feather quill — and leans back to examine his work. With a small nod of satisfaction, he pushes his chair out all the way, not bumping into a single piece of furniture, and stands up to stretch without his fingers brushing against a wall.

The change is reeling.

It's almost too big, he thinks to himself, leaning over the back of his chair and surveying all the empty space. The windows provide a view of the clear night sky stretching over the suburban East City, only serving to add to the amazingly wide feel of the room. Claustrophobia is impossible here, he's sure of it, but if it were possible to fear the wide, open space— (tactless vulnerability through crystal clear windows; endless, stretching deserts peppered with ash and nothing else; the time between his words — what he says before he realizes what he wanted to say instead.) He hopes it never comes that the irrationality will engulf him; there's a small movement out the window, his pulse jumps into a sprint. Roy shakes his head before making his speedy retreat back home. It's smaller there — closed off and somewhat safer — and maybe that's reassuring, he thinks as he stretches again and his hand hits a wall.

(Or maybe it's not, but he falls asleep on his couch all the same.)

The next day, Roy bolts through the headquarter's front gate half a minute late, and it's a good three minutes after the 'o' clock when he arrives at the door to his office. It's unlocked, is the first thing he notices, for he remembers locking the door as he made his dash out. Frowning slightly, he pushes the handle down and slides the door open slowly.

There's a dull thud as the door hits a desk and refuses to open anymore than one third the ways wide. He hears shouts and rustling — "Damn it, Breda; you know we got a lotta shit here! Didn't we tell you to knock first?" — and footsteps march over to the door. A tall, blond man appears in the crack of the door, and the way his blue eyes widen as he tries to come to a stuttering stop before swear words brings the smallest of chuckles to Roy's mouth.

"S-sir!" he exclaims, immediately stiffening into a slightly trembling salute. Roy nods at him, and waits patiently as he hears more shuffling and scraping. When the door slides open, he's met with the sight of few new faces. His eyebrows quirk up at the (pleasant) surprise as he surveys the office room— five desks are scattered throughout the room, papers and boxes and other bits and bobbins are strewn everywhere.

The three men all salute him dutifully as he walks in, and when he recognizes none of their faces, the small downward twitch of his mouth is half involuntary. The blonde man — he has an unlit cigarette perched in his mouth — delivers a swift kick to the desk beside him, hissing in a way that fails to be as discreet as he probably hoped, and the figure that pokes up from behind it to glare at the man makes it hard for the newly appointed Colonel not to grin.

Her ochre eyes land on him, and she immediately snaps into a salute. There's a small ruckus as another man walks in and, upon seeing Roy, drops his box to the ground and salutes him properly. Roy nods at all of them, offering a light, "At ease," and can't help the small smile pulling up at his lips.

One by one, they all introduce themselves.

Kain Fuery graduated top of his class — in mechanics. It's just that he liked working with machines; the whole communications expert and mechanics prodigy is just an added bonus, he sheepishly admits. The man himself is short and dark haired and surprisingly young, especially coming from one of the youngest colonels to ever make rank.

Vato Falman specializes in information. He doesn't speak much, Roy notes, but seems trustworthy and capable — two very respectable traits to have in a soldier.

The man who had come in late addresses himself as Heymans Breda, investigation specialist. Roy might have heard his name before; the man is a reputable investigator, fluent in many languages and has an easygoing air to him. That could come in handy in future reconnaissance missions, but Roy keeps the thought mostly to himself.

When it comes time for the blond man to introduce himself, he only had time to utter his name, "Jean Havoc—" before Riza snatches the unlit cigarette out of his mouth and deposits it into the trashcan. He looks absolutely scandalized, but she, true to her nature, gives him an apathetic raised eyebrow and says, "Continue."

He glares at Riza for half of his introduction, but manages to state that he is the appointed officer-in-charge. Breda good-naturedly attests to his capabilities both mentally and physically, but states that the man came second in class to himself. Havoc barely resists the urge to shout at his friend right then and there. (The two remind Roy of a pair he knows very well — rivals at the Academy, but best friends nonetheless; he makes a mental note to call up Hughes later that day.)

Riza is the last to introduce herself, and the rest of the team looks at her expectantly. She stands ramrod straight as ever, and Roy smirks and raises an eyebrow at her, waiting for her to speak. She salutes him, and only Roy can tell that she might just be pleased with the new team, too.

"Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, sir. Weapons specialist and adjutant to the Colonel." (So, it turns out that Central approved of his recommendation papers, after all.) "Although," she continues, and Roy feels his smirk falter, "If I may say so, the position of adjutant hardly applies to being your chauffeur in cases when you get irrevocably drunk, Colonel, so consider this my friendly warning."

The men all try and fail not to snicker, and it takes an effort on both their parts for Roy to fake chagrin and Riza to not smirk; the colonel ends up chuckling lightly and the lieutenant shows the smallest hint of a smile in her eyes, and as Roy surveys the scene — all the smiles and the clean sunlight and the boxes and furniture haphazardly placed everywhere — he thinks that his new office actually looks _inhabited_.


End file.
